Sherlock 1. Chapter 1

My thanks go to my wonderful Beta Jack63Kids. Without her this wouldn't have been possible.

Initially the story was supposed to be about 5.000 words but it got a bit longer.

The first draft of the story is done and therefore I will update on a regular basis.

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><p>"Bored!"<p>

John Watson made a mental note that his flatmate had uttered the word for the twenty-seventh time but otherwise ignored him.

"John, I'm bored out of my skull!"

_Twenty-eight._

John wondered if it was possible to damage the muscle one needed to roll one's eyes because it felt like he had been rolling said eyes almost constantly for the duration of two hours.

He peered at the sofa where his friend was lying flat on his back. Actually his posture hardly deserved the word lying. The lanky detective rather looked like a rag-doll that had been flung over the sofa. Although the doctor was positive that the furniture hadn't shrunk over the course of the past two hours Sherlock somehow managed to have his curly head hanging over one end of the sofa while his long, naked feet were dangling over the opposite end.

John shook his head.

"Instead of groaning and complaining you could help me with this blog. I could really use your inside knowledge."

"What blog? We haven't had a case for donkey's years."

"The last case was wrapped up two days ago. That hardly qualifies as donkey's years."

"Still, John I remember clearly that you finished writing about the last case just yesterday."

"This is a different one and called _The Suit-Case_," John said, already foreseeing his friend's reaction.

Sherlock sat up and stared at the blond man who was typing away on his laptop. "_The Suit-Case_? Tell me that is a joke, John."

"Nope!" John managed to say the word with as much a popping sound as Sherlock and gave himself a mental high-five for having guessed the reaction correctly.

"Sherlock, you promised you would help me with writing the blog when he haven't got any cases."

"But what is this Suit-Case you are writing about?"

Punching a button to save what he had written so far, John turned to face Sherlock. "It's a gift for Greg."

"Who?"

John grabbed a pencil and threw it at Sherlock who managed to duck at the very last moment. The pencil bounced off the sofa before it fell to the floor, joining the dust-bunnies that were playing hide and seek underneath said sofa.

"Greg Lestrade, you idiot. What is it with his name that you can't remember it?"

Ignoring the question, Sherlock stood up and walked over to have a look at the laptop's screen.

"You're writing how they got together?"

"Yes. Greg likes reading my blog and so I'm writing something for him."

"You know, Mycroft will most likely have you killed or worse if you put that online?" Sherlock asked.

"Worse than getting killed? Seriously, Sherlock."

"My brother can be very creative at times."

"I won't be putting it online anyway. It will be password-protected and only Greg will have the password to access it."

Upon seeing Sherlock's raised eyebrows, John added, "I know that Mycroft will deduce the password at least as fast as you do but since he is very much involved anyway, it doesn't matter, does it?"

"I suppose not. Are you going to make tea?"

"You'll help when I've made tea?"

"I also want biscuits."

John got up to fetch the kettle. "You might start by telling me what it was that set off Mycroft that day."

There was no need to explain which day John meant. Sherlock remembered quite clearly.


	2. Chapter 2

When Greg Lestrade woke up it was still dawn. Fog rolled through the streets of London, muffling the sounds of the early morning. Greg stretched luxuriously before allowing himself to fall back bonelessly into the soft embrace of his bed. He enjoyed waking up early on Sundays, at least on those Sundays when he wasn't completely knackered from work and wasn't on call. That didn't happen too often these days.

Outside it was still quiet enough to hear one of the countless trains leaving Euston Station. Only when the wind came from the right direction could the trains be heard, rumbling along the tracks.

Soft footsteps outside the window and the tale-tell sound of a leash being clipped onto a dog's collar – Mr Merryweather from downstairs went for his early morning-walk with his bull-mastiff Sparky. Loud clicks from high-heels that hurried towards the door were followed by the sound of an umbrella being shaken and closed. The sounds reminded Greg of Mycroft Holmes right away. The sounds caused by the umbrella, not the high-heels. That train of thought made him chuckle. As of late he had seen quite a bit of the politician. The man kept coming to his office or crime scenes for reasons not always clear to Greg. He didn't mind though. Mycroft was witty and as far as Greg was concerned he was very attractive with his elegant, long limbs and bespoke suits. Yawning widely, Greg snuggled into his pillow and fell asleep with the image of intense blue eyes and ginger hair.

Two hours later Greg was up and about. His hair still damp from the shower he stood in the kitchen and cooked himself breakfast. An Omelette with tomatoes and mushrooms, toast, tea and even a glass of orange-juice was on his menu today. Clad in a maroon shirt and jeans, he listened to the radio while preparing his breakfast. Catching himself doing a few steps with the rhythm of the music he couldn't help laughing, wondering what Sally would say if she could see him. The gift certificate for a ten-week step-aerobic course his colleagues had given him on his last birthday had been his Sergeant's idea. First he had thought it was a joke but Sally had explained that those courses usually had only female participants and as he had wasted away since his divorce – her words not his – this course might give his love-life a bit of a kick-start.

It took him two weeks to work up enough courage to go. The course was indeed a hen-party but after the women had got over the initial shock of him invading their territory they had treated him like the cock of the walk.

He hadn't hooked up with any of the women but the exercise had been a lot more fun than he had expected and it had firmed up his arse nicely. Just last week, when he had dropped a pen and bent over to pick it up, he had been fairly certain he had caught Mycroft Holmes staring at said arse with something that could easily be described as leering.

Thoughts of Mycroft surfaced and certainly not for the first time. Greg admitted to himself that he had done his fair share of staring, had tried to deduce what lay under grey, blue, pinstriped or whatever suit Mycroft had chosen to show up in. His own sexual encounters with men were limited to a bit of experimenting once when he had been still at school and another time when he had started his training as a police-officer. But boy did he want to widen his experience with the politician. Closing his eyes he fought a wave of arousal that was fuelled by this train of thought. Maybe it was time to do something about his attraction. Invite the man for a cup of tea for a start, see how that would go. He had an inkling that his advances would either be turned down or he would end in the man's bed before that cuppa had a chance to get cold.


	3. Chapter 3

Sally peered through the door of her DI's office. The past hour her boss had leafed through a file, while repeatedly chewing at his pen and furrowing his brow. She knocked at the door-frame and entered the office.

Greg looked up and without waiting for her to ask the question that was clearly on her mind, he closed the file and threw it onto the desk.

"It's the Sampson case. It won't stay with us. Has MI5 written all over it."

"If it's going to be taken from us why have you been working on it for the past hour?" Sally crossed her arms and looked pointedly at the stack of files that occupied the better part of Greg's desk.

"I don't want to give them the impression we are less clever than they are."

Sally looked sceptical. "Since when are you concerned about the opinion of MI5?"

What could he say. Truth was that he didn't give a shit what most of them thought but he cared a great deal about the opinion of a certain Mycroft Holmes who probably (hopefully!) would pick up the file within the next twenty-four hours. Especially since he wanted to woo that very man.

Before he could come up with an answer though his phone rang and the day went down the drain from there.

oOo

"Sir, there's a hostage-taking in a nursery school."

Mycroft Holmes looked up from his laptop, waiting for his PA to continue. Anthea would never disturb him for an unfortunate but still more or less normal crime unless it involved his line of work or Sherlock in one way or the other.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade will be exchanged for the hostages. The exchange will take place in ten minutes."

Mycroft didn't let on how much this information alarmed him. So much could go wrong and the Holmesian version of the job description of the DI had undergone some changes lately. The position of caretaker, friend and occasional employer of Sherlock now also included distracting, desirable object to Mycroft. In short, the man had been awarded the rank of principal goldfish as Sherlock would paraphrase it.

"We have video feed I presume." Mycroft's voice was nothing but professional.

"Certainly. The link is being transferred to your computer as we speak."

Mycroft nodded and his PA left, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

He quickly scanned the information that had been provided. Brian Connor Barnes, thirty-eight years old, plumber, had entered the nursery school shortly after two pm to pick up his three year old daughter Sabrina. His wife Vivian had filed for a divorce and had threatened to move to her family in Australia with their daughter. When it turned out that Sabrina hadn't been in the nursery school, Barnes had pulled out a gun and had taken four toddlers and a twenty-six year old nursery school-teacher hostage. His demand was easy enough. His wife was to return to him.

Apparently Barnes' call had been transferred to DI Lestrade's phone who had convinced the desperate man he'd make as good a hostage as the toddlers and their teacher.

The video-feed came online and provided Mycroft with a lateral view of the site. He could see the entrance of the building that housed the nursery school and by moving the camera he could also watch what went on behind a van of the special forces.

Currently Greg Lestrade stood behind the van, talking to a man who would be the leader of the SCO19 team on site. Greg was drinking apple-juice from a bottle and eating a protein bar.

'_Wise move_', Mycroft thought. One never knew when the next drink or meal would be available to a hostage.

Handing over the empty bottle as well as the wrapper Greg walked around the van to come into the line of sight of the front of the nursery school. He raised his hand to show whoever was watching, that he held a mobile phone in his hand.

It aggravated Mycroft greatly that he had visual only and no sound was available. The only sound he could tap into was that of the radios.

He watched the DI talking into his mobile, his body-language communicating clearly that he was unhappy about something. Once he had ended the phone-call it quickly became obvious what had annoyed the Inspector.

Returning to the SCO19 leader again, Greg stepped behind the van, where he began taking off his clothes. It wasn't an unusual request that a police-officer, when exchanged for hostages, wore only his underpants.

Despite the dire situation Mycroft felt his mouth go dry as he watched the DI stripping until he wore nothing but his underpants. Dark, tight pants that clung to his wearer's body and left almost nothing to Mycroft's imagination. The camera followed as Greg walked slowly with his hands raised towards the building. He stopped maybe ten meters in front of the entrance where he turned 360 degrees slowly, undoubtedly for the hostage-taker to visually check that he was unarmed. Then he walked forward again and went inside. A minute later a scared looking woman and four toddlers appeared outside. They were quickly brought to safety and then the waiting began.


	4. Chapter 4

Thank you, gentle readers, for all those nice reviews! So thrilled you enjoy the story.

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><p>Mycroft Holmes usually had a very accurate sense of time. The hour since the DI had disappeared inside the nursery school felt much much longer though. He knew that Vivian Barnes was indeed on her way to Australia. She had already disembarked the plane for a stop-over in Bangkok and currently there was no information on her whereabouts. Mycroft didn't dare to imagine how the man, who had the Inspector in his clutches, would react once he learned that news.<p>

To everybody's surprise exactly seventy-two minutes after Greg Lestrade had entered the building, the phone of the squad-leader rang to announce that Brian Barnes was giving up. He and his hostage would leave the building within the next minute.

As it turned out, Barnes had found what he considered an ally in the divorced DI who had understood a great deal of what the man currently was going through. Sabrina wasn't his biological daughter and though he had no intentions of hurting the little girl, he only truly cared for the woman he had married. An hour of serious man to man conversation was all that had been required to alleviate the situation.

Barnes walked out of the building calmly with his hands raised. In a twinkle he was searched, handcuffed and loaded inside a police-car.

Greg left the building moments later with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders against the cold November wind and hurried towards the van where he had left his clothes. Although is bare feet were distractingly cold, Greg still noticed that a CCTV camera followed him all the way to the van. He was quite certain he knew who was watching the video-feed. A few more seconds of cold wind wouldn't make much of a difference, Greg decided. When he was in front of the van, he dropped the blanket and bent down, his bottom to the camera. Picking up the blanket he turned and looked at the camera, wiggling his eye-brows in a very suggestive manner.

1.5 miles from his location an expensive porcelain tea-cup was dropped to the floor and broke.


	5. Chapter 5

The following day Greg was called to the Commissioner's office to give a personal report of the events at the nursery. Commissioner Linda Davidson was a strong but kind woman, who cared for her staff and was well liked in return. Greg admired the woman for her professional attitude but even more for her skill to raise two kids and keep her husband, all the while pursuing her career rather successfully.

Over a cup of tea Greg gave his verbal report of the hostage taking. Linda Davidson listened intently until he had finished.

When he fell silent the woman looked at him with respect but also concern.

"I know, Detective Inspector, that you're an old hand, no offence. Nevertheless, I want to remind you that you wouldn't be judged if you needed some time off. Any sign of trauma, insomnia, weird dreams etcetera, please do accept the help the department can offer."

Greg nodded, thanked her and after a hand-shake left.

Walking back to his office, he decided that last night's wet dream that resulted in waking up with a damp patch in his pyjama bottom like a teenager probably wasn't one of the weird dreams she had meant. And as nice as his boss was, he didn't want to discuss his infatuation with Mycroft Holmes with her – especially in that context.

When he arrived in his office Sally was waiting for him.

"The file has been picked up."

Of course, Greg knew which file she was referring to. "When?"

"A suit came in just ten minutes ago."

"Don't call him a suit!" Greg growled.

Sally shook her head. "It was not the Freak's brother."

"His name is Mycroft Holmes!"

"Whatever." Sally shrugged. She would never understand what her boss saw in the Holmes brothers. "The man who came over had the necessary papers and he took the file."

"OK." Greg tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice. Maybe yesterday's action had insulted Mycroft instead of… of what? For a moment he wondered what he had hoped to accomplish by showing off his arse like he had. Showing Mycroft that he knew he was being watched and that he had caught him looking? Introducing a bit of sexual undercurrent to their fifty percent professional, fifty percent personal relationship? One thing he most certainly hadn't intended was to frighten him off.

Sally cleared her throat when she saw her boss' brain apparently had zoomed out.

"You do have a visitor though." She nodded towards the DI's office.

A colleague in uniform waited for him, holding a thin folder. Greg sat down behind his desk.

"What can I do for you, Sergeant?"

"Michael Harper," the officer introduced himself. "I'm with the Traffic and Criminal Justice Unit. At 2.45am this morning a hit and run accident occurred in Hampstead Lane. The victim was a thirty-two year old woman. She was apparently crossing the street between her car and her flat when she was hit, probably by an SUV or a four by four. She suffered massive injuries and was most likely killed instantly. No eye-witness but a neighbour heard the crash and called us. It looked like a regular hit and run accident at first but my gut feeling tells me something is rotten. Checking the victim's name I discovered that two years ago she was a suspect in a case you handled."

Greg opened the folder and nodded. "Angela Barnett, I remember her. The murder she was accused of occurred two years ago, this very day. All evidence was against her and she still walked free." He didn't mention that Sherlock had worked on that case and one reason the woman had walked free was because of the consulting detective's liberal handling of evidence.

"The date made me suspicious but I also discovered a photo in her handbag that puzzles me. It was in a plain envelope with only her name on it. I put it into the folder as well. Might help you to find out who's behind this."

Greg couldn't suppress a grin. "I haven't taken the case yet," he told the officer, who probably had work piling on his own desk too. When he saw the Sergeant's crest-fallen expression he added, "I'm going to have a look and get back to you, okay?"

"Thank you!" Harper gave the DI a grateful look before he shook hands with him and left.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock Holmes swept into the DI's office.

"I don't have time, Lestrade. What is it that you need my help with now?"

Greg handed him the folder that contained the information of hit and run accident. Sherlock took one look at it before he shot out of the seat he had dropped into mere moments before.

"A traffic-incident?" Sherlock shouted and threw the file onto the desk. "Did your incompetent mind finally bring about the inevitable demotion?" With a swirl of his coat, Sherlock was half-way out of the office before the Inspector's voice stopped him.

"Angela Barnett was killed in a hit and run accident last night."

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks and turned. Naturally he remembered her name.

"It is possible it was indeed an accident but I have my doubts," Greg said. "There might be more to it than meets the eye."

The consulting detective walked back and took the photo Greg held out for him. A man, probably in his sixties, sitting in a leather-armchair, reading a newspaper, was in the picture. Next to the armchair stood an antique wooden table on which an expensive tea-cup sat in a matching saucer.

"When she was found, an envelope containing only this picture was in her handbag. The envelope has been slit at the top. Looks like the photo has been sent to her. For what purpose I don't know though."

"The photo has been taken with a mobile phone. Bad resolution. The angle shows that the picture was taken without the man in it noticing. If you want to know who he is, ask Mycroft." Sherlock handed the photo back.

"What? Why?"

Sherlock huffed, exasperated, but studied the Inspector with keen eyes. Of course, he had noticed the slight hitch of breath when he had mentioned his brother's name.

"Mycroft," Sherlock almost purred the name and was satisfied when he noticed the DI's complexion turning a distinct shade of scarlet, "should know because the photo was taken at the Diogenes Club and Mycroft," another purr, "happens to be one of the founders."

Greg gritted his teeth when he felt the skin of his face warming under Sherlock's scrutiny. '_Bloody wet dream_!' Remembering it, really didn't help either as he tried to concentrate on the case at hand.

"Never heard of this club. Any theory who took the photo?"

"Most likely another member of the Diogenes Club. Georgina Lancaster died by the hands of Angela Barnett exactly two years ago so whoever killed Angela Barnett has a personal motive. If I were you, I'd look for Georgina Lancaster's father or another male relative."

"Why a man?" asked Greg, running after Sherlock, who already flounced out of the office.

"Running somebody over with a car requires driving skills not too many women possess."

Greg wondered what would happen to Sherlock if Sally heard that comment. If anything she was a mean driver who put many of her male colleagues to shame.

"Furthermore, there are no female members at the Diogenes Club."

"One last question."

"What?" Sherlock turned towards the DI, his face displaying clearly that his patience, which was underdeveloped in the first place, was at an end.

"Where is that club? It doesn't sound like I'd find the address in the phonebook."

Sherlock gave him an address near Pall Mall and left.

Once Greg hadn't managed to reach Mycroft by phone, he took the file and headed for the parking garage.


	7. Chapter 7

Mycroft sat in his office at the Diogenes Club. Enjoying a sandwich and a cup of his favourite tea during his lunch break, he leafed through the newspaper, curious what the press had to say about the hostage-taking. It came as no surprise that Gregory Lestrade was referred to as an 'experienced divorcee'. The article read as if the Inspector had a substantial list of five or more divorces under his belt. Looking up the name of the article's author, Mycroft picked up his phone to make a call.

Once he had finished his tea, the sandwich and a newspaper journalist's career, Mycroft read the Sampson case-file that had been brought to him a few minutes before. Having been too ashamed that Gregory had caught him watching and on top his reaction to the teasing look from Gregory's chocolate eyes, he had felt compelled to send a staff member to pick up the file.

By now the DI had obviously found out about it because he had tried to ring him a few minutes ago. Under the pretence of being too busy, not even fooling himself in the process, the Government official had ignored the call. However, he had been looking at the picture that had accompanied the theme from 'Grey's Anatomy'. A couple of weeks ago Greg had provided the photo by snatching the mobile phone from Mycroft and taking a selfie. At least the friends whose numbers were on Mycroft's mobile, he had said, should have their photo attached. Gregory was and would always be the only one with his personal photo and ring-tone on his mobile.

Forcing thoughts about the Inspector from his mind, at least those involving his eyes and all other features of his anatomy, he went back to the file. The case was well investigated and the reports meticulously written. It was only understandable the DI would be upset that the case had been taken

from him.

Twenty minutes later came a knock on the door.

"Enter!" he called and a moment later the Diogenes Club's guard, butler and handyman, Amit Singh, came into view. The name and his black hair were the only traits that marked his Indian heritage. Otherwise he looked British through and through, from his haircut all the way down to his polished shoes.

"There's a gentleman downstairs who wishes to see you, Mr. Holmes. A Detective Inspector Lestrade."

The government official blinked in surprise. He wouldn't have thought Gregory would be upset enough to come to the club. Mycroft was anything but a coward but right now he wasn't sure how well he would be able to handle a personal meeting with the attractive MET officer.

"I'm rather busy," he replied. "Please, tell DI Lestrade I'll get back to him."

Without missing a beat Singh replied, "Detective Inspector Lestrade told me, in case you said you were busy to relay it was important he spoke to you and his visit concerned a present case."

Mycroft's lips twitched. Did the Inspector really know him so well? Was he so very predictable?

"Tell him I understand but right now I really don't have time. I'll be in touch as soon as possible."

Amit Singh gave a nod and closed the door softly behind himself, leaving Mycroft in a state of slight befuddlement, caused by a certain Gregory Lestrade.

The actuator of Mycroft's befuddlement stood patiently outside the glass door of the Diogenes Club, pondering his own further approach should Mycroft refuse to see him, when Sally called him on his mobile.

"I found him. His name is Brent Cross, like the tube station. He's Georgina Lancaster's biological father and worked for the army as a demolition expert. We never heard of him two years ago because he was having chemotherapy when his daughter's case went to court."

"Great work, Sally. I'm still trying to get into the club. Keep me informed."

He had just put his mobile away when the club's door was opened.

"Mr. Holmes is busy. He will be in touch," Singh told the Inspector.

"Wait!"

Singh's expression darkened when he felt the DI's foot in the door and prevented the butler from closing it.

"We're looking for a man called Brent Cross. He's probably a member of your club. He..."

Greg didn't get any further. He was shoved backwards and the door closed into his face. The DI had expected that and tried to give the aggravated butler the impression of being defeated. He had just stepped onto the street when Sally called again.

"You might want to hurry getting the information. It looks like Cross' cancer has returned and he doesn't have much time left before he dies. He might want to go with a bang."

"Shit. Any idea what the man looks like?"

"I've got a photo I can send you. I also discovered that the man on the photo found in Angela Barnett's handbag is her father, Peter Barnett. Can you get inside the club for more information?"

"Mr. Holmes happens to be busy," Greg couldn't keep the annoyance he felt out of his voice, "but I managed to jam the lock of the club's door. I'll go inside and have a peep as soon as I have the photo."

"Be careful, will you?"

"Yes, mummy," Greg grinned.

"Idiot!" Sally ended the call.

Seconds later the mobile beeped, announcing the photo had arrived. Brent Cross' hair was cropped and he had a gaunt but aristocratic looking face. Greg could see how the ex-army man would fit into the circle of this club.

Checking carefully that the guard had indeed withdrawn from the door Greg pushed a slim but unyielding metal card between door and door-frame. The latch gave way, allowing him to open the door. He removed the folded piece of paper he had secretly slipped inside the notch of the door when he had been talking with the butler. He had taken that trick from Sherlock's book. Not exactly becoming for a DI entering a building like this without authorization but useful nonetheless. Now he had to make sure he wouldn't get caught.

Moving as quietly as possible through the ground-floor he came to the room where apparently the picture had been taken that had been found in Angela Barnett's handbag. At first glance the room looked empty but then he discovered that a half-filled glass of whisky on one of the tables next to an arm-chair with a high back. The occupant of the arm-chair had probably seen the DI's reflection in a window because he leaned to his left and looked around the arm-chair's back directly at the Inspector. Their eyes met and the moment Greg recognized Brent Cross, the man identified him as a police-officer and stood up.

Greg's eyes went wide when he saw the Semtex-vest that the man had strapped to his body, mostly hidden by a suit jacket. Obviously Cross had been waiting for Peter Barnett to end both their lives. Understanding he had been found out, Cross gave Greg an almost sad smile before he reached into his pocket. Instinctively Greg turned and bolted for the door.

Maybe in his panic he had really been fast enough or maybe the man had actually given him a head-start, because he had almost reached the door when the sound of the explosion thundered through the building and the shock-wave knocked him off his feet. Black smoke billowed through the rooms, quickly engulfing the DI who had hit the wall and was lying on the floor, slightly dazed. His ears were ringing and he just recalled the location of the door when he remembered there should be at least two more people inside the building; perhaps trapped in the upper floor were the club's butler and Mycroft Holmes.


	8. Chapter 8

Thank you all for the lovely reviews, and to my Beta Jack, once again a heartfelt thank you for doing terrific work on short notice.

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><p>Several minutes passed while Greg was trying to find his way around in the smoke before a couple of fire-fighters, equipped with appropriate breathing apparatus, entered the building and dragged him outside. He tried to tell them about the other people still in the building but he kept coughing and gasping for breath. Greg was handed over to a paramedic who helped him to the ambulance. Along with the smoke inhalation came a light carbon monoxide poisoning, causing Greg to vomit before he even reached the ambulance. The paramedic stayed close, supported him and when his patient had emptied his stomach he handed him a bottle of water to rinse the mouth. Finally the Inspector was capable of speech.<p>

"There were at least two more men in the building when the explosion took place. I mean two who could have survived," Greg wheezed.

The thought that Mycroft could have been killed in the explosion or the fire, created a lump in his throat. He tried to tell the paramedic more about the explosion but was pushed him down onto the stretcher in the ambulance and an oxygen mask was fastened over his mouth and nose.

Greg was inhaling evenly as he had been told, almost immediately feeling better. Still he couldn't shake off the concern over whether Mycroft was all right and kept nagging the paramedic until he agreed to go outside and ask if a Mycroft Holmes had been rescued. The man had just left the ambulance when faced with a slightly dishevelled looking man in a three-piece suit.

"Are you treating a patient by the name of Gregory Lestrade?"

"His name is Lestrade, yes. Are you Mycroft Holmes?"

If Mycroft was surprised he didn't let on but merely nodded.

The paramedic sighed. "Terrific. Please, show yourself to my patient so he will allow me to treat him appropriately for his injury." He opened the door of the ambulance and Mycroft climbed inside.

"Gregory!"

Greg's relief to see him was so very palpable, that Mycroft felt utterly ashamed. "Mr. Singh and I left the building through a second stairwell," he said before the DI could take off the mask and speak. "We are quite unharmed. Your Sergeant Donovan is outside. I'm certain she can give me most of the information concerning what has happened."

Greg nodded, closed his eyes and let go of Mycroft's hand he couldn't remember having gripped.

"I will be in touch soon," the Government official said before he squeezed the DI's shoulder and left the ambulance.

"You could have told me, you were worried about your boyfriend," the paramedic said, before he checked Greg's blood-pressure and listened to his breathing with a stethoscope.

"Not my boyfriend," the Inspector mumbled through the mask but his protest was ignored.

Outside the ambulance Mycroft faced a very angry Sally Donovan.

"If he's hurt because of you..."

"Please, Sergeant, refrain from making threats you're incapable of putting into practice." Mycroft sounded mildly bored. "Besides, the Detective Inspector should be up and about in no time."

Sally growled but told him about Brent Cross and Peter Barnett, knowing it was the quickest way to get the man out of her hair.


	9. Chapter 9

Two days later Mycroft paid his brother a visit. He felt incapable of enquiring about the Inspector's health personally but knew that Sherlock would be informed via his flatmate John Watson. The good doctor had undoubtedly sought Gregory out when he had heard about the incident that had made the front-page of several newspapers.

Of course, Mycroft couldn't just barge into his brother's flat and ask after the DI's health without raising suspicion. No, he needed to play his usual 'worried big brother routine' to get Sherlock talking and eventually steer the conversation inconspicuously to the topic of the Inspector's health. This plan was flawless and worked until the moment he stood right outside of 221b and Mrs Hudson opened the door.

"Hello Mr. Holmes. Are you here to inquire about Inspector Lestrade's health?"

"Ah, good day, Mrs. Hudson. No, not primarily."

The woman had shrugged. "Well then, have a good day and do tell Sherlock to stop throwing his rubbish out of the windows into the dustbins downstairs, will you?" She disappeared inside her flat and closed the door before Mycroft had a chance to reply.

Half an hour later he had still to broach the subject, Mycroft mused while standing next to Sherlock; both brothers were looking out of the window, deducing passers-by.

"That man is obviously guilty of cheating on his wife. Look how he courts her," Mycroft was saying, as his sibling's lips curled into a smile.

"Yes, guilt. Such an obvious emotion." Sherlock's voice was as smooth as silk.

Something in his tone of voice made Mycroft's back stiffen slightly.

"Remorse or a guilty conscience, avoids eye-contact, fidgets while talking", turning to face his brother, Sherlock went on, "touches his hair."

Mycroft felt himself blushing and his temper rise. "Are you implying something?" he asked, running his fingers through his hair involuntarily.

"A flushed face and anger also are clear signs of guilt." Now Sherlock was looking him straight in the eye.

"Not necessarily," Mycroft growled.

"No, but when combined with other signals a dead give-away."

"Sherlock!" Mycroft's hands, stored away in the pockets of his trousers, curled into fists.

"You reek of guilt, Mycroft!" the Consulting Detective told him, his eyes blazing. "It almost looks like you are personally responsible of Lestrade getting hurt in the explosion at the club. You are the one who keeps telling me how important it is to act according to social rules and values and here you are, dying to get information concerning Lestrade's health but instead of calling or visiting him, you're wasting my time." Sherlock invaded his brother's personal space by stepping forward. "So, what have you done?"

For a moment the Government official was speechless and looked defeated but before Sherlock could say anything else, he turned, went to grab his coat and almost ran from the flat, slamming the door behind him. He nearly ran into John Watson who just walked up the stairs, laden with two bags of groceries.

"Wow, careful, Mycroft!" the Doctor shouted in surprise. "Were you here to inquire about Greg?"

"None of your business," Mycroft snarled and was outside in a blink of an eye.

John climbed the remaining steps and was surprised when Sherlock opened the door for him, holding an umbrella in his hand.

"Oh, it's you. I thought you were in the bathroom." Sherlock stepped aside to let John enter the flat, absent-mindedly putting his brother's umbrella back into a corner.

"Sherlock, I left two hours ago. Why would I still be in the bathroom?" Dumping the bags on the kitchen counter John turned to his flat-mate. "What happened to Mycroft? He ran out of the house like it was on fire." He pointed at the umbrella in the corner. "That's his umbrella, right? Did he actually forget to take it with him?"

Sherlock only smiled and for once and to John's utmost surprise, he helped the Doctor to unpack the groceries.

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><p>Okay, the waiting for the first kiss is almost over. Didn't expect it'd take quite as long to push and nudge them both towards each other. :-D<p> 


	10. Chapter 10

You've waited long enough for this chapter, so I'm publishing it a day early. Please, do tell what you think about it.

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><p>Mycroft was almost running when he left the house. Hands inside the pockets of his coat he walked swiftly along the side-walk, trying to fight back the anger that engulfed him. His driver spotted him by mere chance in the rear-view mirror right before the Government official disappeared around a corner. Immediately the driver started the car, turned and followed his boss. Catching up in less than a minute he slowed down beside him but was excused with an impatient wave of a hand. Of course, the driver obeyed but he rang up Mycroft Holmes' personal assistant without further delay.<p>

The distance between Baker Street and New Scotland Yard is two and a half miles. Mycroft hadn't even covered the first mile when it began to rain. It was typical London rain, the kind that pretends to be just a drizzle but manages to soak those who get caught in it quite efficiently.

Only when the rain started did Mycroft notice that he had left his umbrella in Sherlock's flat. It did nothing to improve his mood. He could have called his driver, flag down a cab or seek shelter in one of the many cafés but he kept walking with determination, his anger subsiding with every step he walked.

When he reached St. James' Park his coat was wet, his hair plastered to his scull, he was cold and felt thoroughly miserable. All he wanted was a hot shower, a warm and cosy robe, a thick pair of socks and a cup of very hot tea. Tea with honey. And a piece of chocolate-cake.

Still, what he craved even more was seeing Gregory, confirming with his own eyes that the man was well. Sod the guilt he felt exactly as Sherlock had deduced. Gregory would forgive him when he apologized, perhaps over dinner, doing it properly. Apologize he would. He missed the Inspector, not only because of the physical attraction he could no longer deny but also talking and listening to him. Mycroft might be a lot smarter but Gregory Lestrade was no idiot. He was loyal, tenacious, funny and for a regular Human being quite clever.

His head bowed against the rain, Mycroft avoided a large puddle on the path by stepping to the right and ran straight into a man with an umbrella.

Said umbrella clattered to the ground and two strong hands came up, taking hold of Mycroft's biceps to prevent him from falling.

"I'm sorry, I..."

"Mycroft?" Letting go of his arms, Greg bent down and to pick up his umbrella to hold it over himself and the Government official.

"Gregory!" Mycroft's eyes went wide when he was confronted with the object of his desire all of a sudden.

"What happened to you? You're soaking wet." Greg touched first the coat and then the other man's cheek with his fingertips.

Unprepared and in addition confused from the touch to his face, Mycroft blurted out the truth. "I forgot my umbrella in Sherlock's flat and I wanted to see you to see how you are."

Greg felt his heart melt, seeing the usually well groomed and composed man like his. "You forgot your umbrella and walked all the way from Baker Street in the rain to see me?"

Mycroft nodded and a soft smile spread over Greg's face.

"Come on, let's go to the Yard. I'll drive you home before you catch a cold." Greg had planned on getting a snack from a booth in the park but there was no way he would leave the undoubtedly freezing man in the cold November weather longer than necessary.

"Why did you want to see me?" Greg asked, once they had fallen into step side by side.

"I already told you, I wanted to know how you are."

"That's it? You could have called," Greg replied, his voice gently teasing the man next to him, who promptly stopped and ended up in the rain again.

Greg turned and came back. When they both stood under the protective cover of the umbrella again, he fixed his counterpart with a stern glance.

"Talk to me, Mycroft. What's going on?"

Mycroft wished he had something, preferable his own umbrella to hold on to. Furthermore standing under Gregory's umbrella he was in the Inspector's territory and therefore in the weaker position. He found reassurance in Gregory's warm brown eyes but stumbled over the next words nonetheless.

"I was wondering... wondering if you would consider..."

"Yes!"

"Excuse me?"

"Yes, Mycroft."

"You don't even know what I was going to say."

"It doesn't matter. Meeting you for coffee? Yes. Go for a walk? Sure, even in the rain." He shrugged and smiled softly. "Have dinner with you? Of course."

Greg's voice had dropped while he talked and Mycroft sucked in a slightly shaking breath.

"Sharing a drink? Yes," Greg added.

"How about sharing a kiss?" Mycroft asked, feeling his wildly beating heart almost galloping out of his chest.

"Yes," came the soft reply.

They looked at each other and all Greg managed to think was that he wanted to know what Mycroft's lips tasted like now. His tongue came out to wet his own lips and suddenly it was so easy.

Both men leaned forward and kissed. Their lips touched for just a second but after having exchanged reassuring glances, they leaned back in and kissed again.

Neither the sun came out this very moment, nor did the London Philharmonics strike up all of a sudden to turn that kiss into a life changing act. Still the texture of lips and tongues combined with their mutual tastes and scents was nothing but perfect.

Not caring that the wetness from Mycroft's coat would quickly soak his own, Greg pulled him close with the hand that was not occupied holding the umbrella. Mycroft held him tightly in return, one hand pressed to the small of the back, the other buried in the spiky, salt-and-pepper hair, his thumb drawing small, tantalizing circles.

Mycroft's tongue did unspeakable things to Greg's, and the DI understood he needed to end this kiss now or he would ravish the Government official right then and there.

He pulled back and groaned when those incredible lips latched onto the bare strip of skin above the collar of his coat.

"God, Mycroft, please stop," he begged, bending the head all the same to give the skilled mouth better access.

With a final gentle nip to the earlobe, Mycroft obeyed. Their eyes closed as they stood with their foreheads against one another, trying to get their breathing back under control.

Once Greg managed to avoid looking into the blue depth of Mycroft's eyes, his brain slowly came back online. "I'm going to drive you home and then I will have to go back to the office to finish my work." He tried to keep his voice even. "However, I am free tonight so whatever it was you were proposing, I'm available."

"Dinner," Mycroft huffed. "I was going to propose dinner." His knuckles touched Greg's jaw in an affectionate gesture. "Would you accept an apology now?"

Greg blinked, clearly confused. "You're not going to apologize for the kiss, are you?"

Mycroft actually laughed. "Good lord, no. Definitely not for the kiss." He pulled the DI close and quickly kissed the inviting mouth again before he cleared his throat. "I want to apologize for watching you with the camera before and after the hostage taking. Clearly you knew."

Now it was Greg's turn to laugh. "I guessed it was you. I don't even want to imagine that somebody else had been watching." Greg hummed, feeling there was more to the apology than having watched via CCTV. "Is that all?"

With Mycroft having hooked his hand in the crook of Gregory's left arm, they began walking towards NSY.

"I'm sorry for taking the Sampsom case from you but it was necessary. When you came to the Diogenes Club I knew you were upset. That's why I refused to see you."

"But that wasn't the reason I came to see you," the Inspector said.

"I know that now but when you showed up..." Mycroft shrugged, feeling out of his depth once again.

Greg considered Mycroft's words and suddenly he understood. "Could it be that you're feeling guilty that I got hurt? Guilty that I ended up in the ambulance where I had to be treated for smoke inhalation?"

Mycroft clamped his mouth shut, which was as good as a yes.

"That's why you walked from Baker Street all the way to the park. You felt you deserved some sort of punishment?"

"Gregory..."

Greg stopped and looked at Mycroft who, although he was a good inch taller than the DI, suddenly appeared smaller. "Don't you think I should decide on the punishment?"

Mycroft shuddered visibly, clearly understanding the meaning behind those words. He nodded meekly. "Yes, but Gregory, I...," he blushed, "I don't enjoy pain."

Greg's expression softened. "Don't worry. Neither do I," he said, kissing the corner of Mycroft's mouth.

They walked the rest to the Yard and when they arrived they saw a black limousine in the restricted parking area.

"Looks like I won't have to drive you home after all." They stopped next to the limousine. The driver got out and his relief to see his boss wet but otherwise unharmed was palpable.

Mycroft nodded. "Will you come to my place tonight for dinner? At seven?"

"With pleasure," Greg replied. "I'll call you when I leave the office."

Neither one was ready yet to kiss in clear view of everybody who cared to watch, so Mycroft only squeezed Greg's biceps gently and got into the car. The look both men exchanged before the door was closed, was full of anticipation though.


	11. Chapter 11

Greg stood in front of his wardrobe, dressed only in a pair of boxer shorts; very short boxer shorts. Looking at the clothes he owed he envied the man he would meet in half an hour. Mycroft certainly had lots of tasteful clothes for all occasions and he always looked impeccable. The DI's possession were mostly suits and shirts that could survive long hours in the office as well as the occasional fight during an arrest. The rest were casual trousers and shirts that somehow didn't seem right to wear when visiting the elegant Government official.

A loud knock on the door startled him in his contemplation. Greg groaned. Probably Mr. Merryweather who had forgotten his keys and locked himself out again. Slipping into a dressing gown he hurried to the door.

"Sorry, Mr. Merryweather I don't have... Sherlock?"

Before Greg could tell the lanky detective that right now he had absolutely no time for a visit and since when did Sherlock visit him at home anyway, the man had strut inside like he owned the place.

"Obviously you have no idea what to wear for a date with my brother," Sherlock told him.

"What? Of course I do," Greg protested, not even bothering to ask how Sherlock knew he was about to date his older sibling.

The consulting detective fixed him with his usual _'you're such an idiot__'_ look and handed him a brown paper-bag.

"Wear these!"

He walked out of the door again but before he closed it, he gave the surprised Inspector a lopsided smile. "You owe me a case, Lestrade." Sherlock winked and was gone before Greg could think of anything to say.

Looking at his watch, Greg gasped. Unless he wanted to be late he had to leave in ten minutes. Taking the clothes out of the bag Sherlock had brought, he shrugged and pulled them on.

oOo

A shirt in each hand, Mycroft stood in his walk-in closet, trying to decide what to wear. How he envied Gregory. The man had plenty of casual clothes he could just throw on and look delectable. As for himself, he felt weird wearing anything but a three-piece suit while for once he rather wanted to wear something informal.

"He's going to be here in fifteen minutes tops. Unless you want Lestrade to ravaging you at the doorstep, I would advise against greeting him dressed only in your briefs."

Mycroft jumped when his brother appeared next to him all of a sudden. He shook his head, not bothering to tell Sherlock off for picking the lock to his house again.

"Unless you're here to help, you might as well leave."

Sherlock cocked his head and picked up a royal-blue shirt, Mycroft had obviously put aside.

"What's wrong with this one?"

Mycroft shrugged. "Nothing really but..."

"Then wear it! That and those trousers." Sherlock pointed at a pair of cream-coloured slacks. When his brother didn't move to put on the suggested items, the detective came closer. "Do you want me to stay? I've got all night."

That got Mycroft moving. He began putting on a vest and the shirt.

"Leave the two top buttons open. He'll enjoy the view," Sherlock told him, when his sibling began buttoning his shirt.

Annoyed by the words that caused his face to heat in embarrassment, Mycroft studied his brother's expression in the mirror. "Did you come all the way to help me select my outfit for tonight?"

"Of course not." Sherlock showed him the umbrella he had brought. "You would have used it as an excuse to show up in my flat again." Leaning the umbrella against the wall he turned to leave. For a moment it looked like Sherlock would add 'have fun' and Mycroft would thank him but they remained silent and the consulting detective left.

oOo

Having rung the bell Greg wondered if his heartbeat could be heard through the closed door for he was almost vibrating with anticipation. He looked in awe at Mycroft's house, thinking it was appropriate that the man lived in such an impressive building.

The door was opened moments later by the inhabitant who ushered him into the warmth and took his jacket to hang up. Greg had pondered how he should greet Mycroft. A hand-shake seemed too formal but a kiss or a hug was probably too bold.

Mycroft made the decision for him by placing a hand on the small of his back and guiding him further inside the house and into the living-room, where a fire in an open fire-place created a pleasant warmth.

"Dinner is still in the oven, Gregory. Would you prefer a drink or a quick tour through the house?" Mycroft asked, his eyes roaming over his visitor's body appraisingly.

For a moment Greg wondered if Sherlock's choice of clothing for him, expensive jeans-style trousers in charcoal grey and a soft, pine-green shirt with black pinstripes, had been wrong but then he noticed that Mycroft's face looked more flushed than the temperature of the room could be accountable for and the elegant hands twitched once or twice like he longed to touch him.

"A tour, I think. The last meal I had was breakfast and I rather don't drink alcohol on an empty stomach."

"Very well then." Mycroft lead him to a room that was dominated by a large wooden table. A few authentic suits of armour stood along the wall, keeping silent watch.

"The dining-room," Mycroft explained. "I hardly come here unless I'm particularly depressed."

Greg studied his face to see if he was joking but Mycroft looked serious and in his voice was no humour. Looking around the DI could imagine getting depressed in this magnificent but gloomy room if one sat here all alone. Carefully he opened the visor of one of the helmets and peered inside.

"What are you looking for?" Mycroft inquired.

"Just wanted to check if there was a ghost inside."

Mycroft snorted in amusement. "You don't believe in ghosts do you, Gregory?"

"Of course, I do. During the night those knights probably come alive to fight." He grinned, imagining the empty suits of armour hacking away at each other when nobody was around.

"Silly man," Mycroft chided but smiled nonetheless.

While looking out the window into the dark, Greg spotted Mycroft's reflection in the window pane. Deciding he could wait no longer to kiss the man, who had been watching his curious exploration patiently, the DI approached him and touched his hand to a cheek that was as freshly shaven as his own.

"You look gorgeous," Greg whispered, before pulling him close to claim the inviting mouth. Very much approving of the action, Mycroft wrapped his arms around him and returned the kiss with vigour.

They kept kissing until a distinctly audible sound from Greg's stomach made them break apart. "I am a bit hungry," the DI admitted, looking sheepishly at his host. "Skipped lunch," he added with a wink.

"Then I shall feed you. I hope you approve of the food I have chosen," Mycroft said. Taking his guest's hand he led him to the kitchen. A delicious smell Greg couldn't quite place, came from the oven. When the food appeared, placed in two separate casserole dishes, Greg laughed out loud.

"I can hardly believe it. You cooked fish and chips?"

Mycroft's eyes shone with delight, seeing his surprise had been a success. Undoubtedly Gregory had expected something much more fancy. He put a bottle with malt vinegar on the table and two glasses. "I thought you'd rather enjoy it," Mycroft said and pulled two bottles of beer from the fridge.

When Greg read the label he laughed again. "Sheriff's Tipple?"

"Yes, it's from the Castle Rock Brewery. I have other beer if you don't like it."

The DI looked at Mycroft with blatant affection. "I presume there's also dessert," he remarked, his voice seductively low, looking pointedly at the bit of ginger chest-hair that was visible in the neck-line of Mycroft's shirt.

Noticing his host was all in a fluster, Greg smiled at him, the tip of his tongue showing between his teeth and stabbed his fork into the first piece of fish.

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><p>Don't worry. There's going to be "dessert" for Greg in the next chapter. Very delicious dessert - spiced with plenty of ginger! ;-)<p> 


	12. Chapter 12

Okay, this chapter is probably closer to an E than an M rating and it is because of some sexual activity. If you don't like that better skip to the epilogue of the story, which is chapter 13.

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><p>Greg decided those fish and chips had been the best he had ever had. He washed it down with two beers and didn't stop eating until he had stolen the last chip from Mycroft's plate.<p>

"That was absolutely delicious!" he proclaimed eventually and patted his full stomach.

They left the plates and glasses in the sink and walked into the living-room but before Mycroft could even offer his guest a seat or a drink, he was hugged from behind and his neck was kissed thoroughly.

"Dessert, remember?"

The words were murmured low in his ear, causing a shiver to run along Mycroft's spine. His back was pressed to a muscular chest and clever finger began to unbutton his shirt. When a hand slipped underneath the vest while the fingertips of the other caressed the elegant curve of his exposed throat, he closed his eyes in pleasure.

Exploring the flat belly and teasing a nipple into a hard nub soon wasn't enough any more. Greg wanted to see the body, that felt amazing to his hand, unclothed.

"Does the tour through the house include a trip to your bedroom?" Greg asked.

"In a moment," Mycroft all but growled.

Having loosened his grip, the DI was startled how fast the man in his arms managed to turn and pin him to the wall with his body. A mouth crashed onto his, a tongue dove in and when it touched the tip of his own it fuelled his arousal like kerosene poured into fire.

His palms pressed against the wall, Mycroft trapped the other man quite efficiently. Not that his guest gave any indication he would like to flee the premises any time soon. He rather took two hand full of Government's bottom, squeezed the firm globes to hold him in place while he rolled his hips, rubbing the other man's crotch against his own.

Mycroft's lust addled mind tried to order an impromptu meeting of the remaining coherent brain-cells but the number of participants was embarrassingly low.

"Bedroom, now!" was all he managed to croak, the mouth that was trailing along his neck and sucking a particular sensitive spot below one ear terribly distracting.

Both men stumbled along the corridor, discarding their shirts and vests along the way. Once they reached the bedroom, Mycroft switched on the reading light on the bedside table, turning it to face the wall.

Greg studied the bedroom curiously. A queen-size bed, the bedside table and a chest of drawers were the whole of the furniture. The walls were painted in a pale bluish green; combined with the white wood of the furniture and the light carpet, the room had a serene atmosphere that would have a soothing effect on the busiest mind.

Feeling Mycroft's intense gaze on him, Greg gave a slight smile. "This room is very you. I feel almost like an intruder."

With two long strides Mycroft reached the DI, hauled him against his chest and kissed him passionately.

"I can't imagine I would ever regard you as an intruder, Gregory. On the contrary, after all that happened I consider myself lucky you came here at all." He lowered his head.

Seeing the guilt resurfacing again, Greg ran his hand along Mycroft's jaw and tipped up his chin. "Look at me," he demanded. When he had the man's full attention, he squared his shoulders. "Maybe it'd be best if I punished you now; for watching me with the CCTV, for taking the case from me, refusing to see me and for getting me injured in the process. When I'm done we're going to consider the matter settled, all right?"

Mycroft nodded with a look of trepidation on his face. Greg pulled him close and crowding him against the chest of drawers, he kissed him softly. "Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you," he promised.

The Inspector released him and stepped back, allowing his eyes to sweep appreciatively over Mycroft's torso, marvelling at the freckled skin as well as the abundance of ginger chest-hair before he closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, his whole demeanour had changed. Although his own torso was bare as well, an officer of the Met with the rank of a DI stood there. A man who was in charge.

"First," Greg said, "I want you to take off your clothes. All of them. I want to see you naked."

Mycroft shivered upon the request. Only it hadn't been a request but an order. He nodded and bent down to take off his shoes and socks first. It was quite obvious he had no idea where to put them for he usually dressed as well as undressed in his walk-in closet. After a moment of consideration, he put the shoes neatly side-by-side next to the chest of drawers and stuffed his socks into the shoes.

Greg swallowed when he watched Mycroft tentatively opening his belt, the button of his trousers and the zip to stepped out of the garment. The admiring look in Gregory's brown eyes reassured Mycroft, when he placed his hands on his briefs but he was very much out of his depth.

"Slowly!" Greg ordered, his voice rough. "I want to enjoy it."

Mycroft couldn't even begin to imagine how to take off his underwear in a fashion Gregory would enjoy. He did make an effort though, wiggling his behind in the process. He must have done something right because he caught Gregory licking his lips and saw that his pupils dilated visibly.

"Beautiful," Greg whispered, running his hands along the slender flanks, drinking in the sight. His body still roused from past stimulation, Mycroft felt his cock harden and his breath getting uneven.

Greg wanted nothing but take this man in his arms and show him how much he desired, how much he cared for him but he they needed to get rid of this guilt issue first.

"Hold still," he told Mycroft. "You can neither touch me nor yourself. Understood?"

"Yes, Gregory."

Mycroft watched with wide eyes when his legs, his torso and his arms were explored. Tantalizing fingers ran all he way from his feet to his thighs, from his fingers to his armpits, from his shoulders to the small of his back and from his collarbones all the way down to his bellybutton. All areas that could be considered erogenous, Greg gave a wide berth. Still, the treatment left Mycroft trembling and burning with passion, the verdict not to touch the man who caused this want, further fuelling his desire.

Since when had his shoulders, stomach or the back of his knees had become so very sensitive? Warmth pooled low in Mycroft's belly as the teasing hands drew patterns of fire on his skin, drawing a low moan from him.

All of a sudden the touch was gone and Mycroft opened his eyes he couldn't remember having closed to begin with.

"Lay down on the bed so you can watch me," Greg ordered.

Mycroft obeyed, climbed onto the bed and fought the urge to wrap his hand around his erection to get some sort of relief. If he had chosen to look at the Inspector this very moment, he would have seen the lust that flared up in the dark eyes as well as recognized the rapidly slipping self-control.

Greg took off his shoes and socks while Mycroft got onto the bed and when the man had settled down, he opened his trousers with slow deliberation. Mycroft's eyes almost bulged when Greg pulled down the zip very slowly and rolled his hips while taking off the garment. That piece of clothing he wore hardly deserved the name boxer shorts. Above the strip of dark, shiny material both hipbones and a sliver of dark, pubic hair were visible. Mycroft wondered, if it was possible for the torment to get worse but it was, for Greg came closer, turned and gave him a good view of his lovely behind.

When his back was turned, Greg closed his eyes, trying to compose himself. He did everything in his powers to arouse Mycroft but it affected him all the same, making him almost as hard as the man on the bed.

With a grin, Greg took hold of his own erection, adjusting himself that the head of his cock peeped out of the top of his briefs before he turned around. Mycroft sucked in a shaky breath when he caught sight of the display.

"Good lord, Gregory!"

Greg fixed Mycroft with a stare, taking in the desire that shone in those incredible blue eyes, the arousal that made the skin of his neck and chest flush and his jaw go slack. Removing his pants, he let them drop to the floor and crawled onto the bed.

Lying outstretched on his back, Mycroft almost shook with suppressed desire. His cock stood proud to full attention, the tip glistening wet from pre-cum.

Careful not to touch anything but his lips, Greg moved to kiss him. Moans spilled from their mouths, the chosen punishment clearly torture for both of them.

"I want to touch you Gregory," Mycroft panted. "Don't you think I've been punished enough?"

Disposed of mirth, Greg winked at him. "Not yet," he replied and bit down in the soft flesh of Mycroft's neck, eliciting a yelp.

All areas that had been neglected before, now received proper attention. A gentle massage of Mycroft's tests alternated with a clever mouth nibbling and sucking his nipples; the treatment that was quickly reducing the man to utter incoherency. He writhed and moaned for it felt amazing but still wasn't enough. Once every nerve ending had been awoken suitably, Greg finally shifted.

"Gregory, please, no more teasing," Mycroft begged and the DI obeyed, taking the hot length of Mycroft's erection between his lips and sucking him into his mouth in one swift movement.

For a moment Mycroft's hands flailed helplessly before they flew to the salt-and-pepper hair of his lover. In less than a minute he felt himself coming, almost saw the orgasm approaching like a towering wave about to break. It was rolling over him, carried him along and ripped a strangled cry from his mouth. Strong hands held him in place while the hot spurts were sucked from him faster than his body could deliver until he collapsed utterly spent into a boneless heap.

Mycroft was held close while he drank in gulps of air, his heart beating like he had just run a marathon and strong hands were drawing soothing circles on his back while he recovered. Eventually the world stopped spinning and the man who held him, slowly came back into focus.

It took Mycroft a surprising amount of time to notice the erection that was poking his hip.

Feeling more than appropriately punished, he still wanted to make sure he was finally allowed to touch.

"May I," he asked with a polite smile, indicating with a sweep of his hand that he would like nothing better than taking care of the evidence of his lover's arousal.

The "Yes, Please!" came out positively desperate and Mycroft moved to kiss Gregory, wrapping his hand around the man's cock at the same time. It didn't take long for Greg to give a choked warning. A few twists of the wrist, a thumb swiping over the sensitive head of the cock and Greg tumbled over the edge.

His eyes were pinched close while Mycroft held him, listening to his lover's breathing coming slowly back to normal.

They kissed before taking turns in the en-suite bathroom and settling down for the night, tired limbs entwined. Stretching languidly, Mycroft pulled Gregory's head - his Gregory's head - down, to rest against his chest.

"Mycroft?"

"Hmm?"

"The mattress of your bed, it is very comfy but feels... uhm... odd."

"It's a water-bed."

Greg peeled one eye open to look at his living and breathing pillow.

"Seriously?"

Mycroft bounced slightly with his bottom, setting the water in motion for a second or two. Doing some bouncing of his own, Greg's face broke into a grin when he envisioned the benefits such a bed offered. Provided that he would be invited back. He turned his head to kiss the skin above Mycroft's heart, which earned him a happy hum.

"This wasn't a one time thing, was it?"

"I very much hope not. Besides," the smile was audible in Mycroft's voice, "there is always the possibility I might feel guilty in the future."

They looked at each other lovingly before realigning their bodies to kiss. A kiss that alleviated all doubts but promised a common future.


	13. Chapter 13 - Epilogue

"I'm still not convinced that The Suit-Case is an appropriate name for this blog," Sherlock said sceptically before he crossed his arms in front of his chest.

John leaned back in his chair and looked at his friend. "Do you have a better idea?"

"What was the title of the blog before this one?" the Consulting Detective asked.

"_The __S__peckled Blond_, why?"

A slight smile tugged at Sherlock's lips. "May I?" He indicated the laptop.

"Be my guest." John moved to give him access to the keyboard and watched him type a different title.

"How is that?"

John toppled over laughing. "Perfect!"

It took Sherlock one click to deactivate the password-protection and in a jiffy '_The __F__reckled Ginger_' went online.

* * *

><p>Again I'd like to thank my Beta Jack63kids who did a wonderful job beta-ing, Sir ACD and Moftiss for giving us those characters in the first place, Chasingriversong for buying the story at the birthday auction for Mark Gatiss and also a big thank you to all of those who read, commented and marked the story or yours truly as their favourite.<p> 


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Sherlock, Romance